After The Storm
by BloodGutsandAngelCake
Summary: 'He was aware that people moved around him; spoke to him, but it didn't register. It couldn't. Not whilst the biggest part of him was still missing.' Post-Reichenbach. Rated M for strong language. Hopefully eventual Johnlock fingers crossed, eh?


**A/N: Hello! This is my first fic, so I hope it's up to scratch. All characters etc. belong to the beautiful minds of the almighty Mofftis and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All mistakes are my own and I apologise if there are any. Reviews are much appreciated. Thank you so much for reading, enjoy! **

_To Arllen: my_ _muse, squee buddy and dear friend._

...

_**After the storm**_

_**I run and run as the rains come**_

_**And I look up**_

_**On my knees and out of luck, I look up.**_

_**Night has always pushed up day**_

_**You must know life to see decay**_

_**But I won't rot, I won't rot**_

_**Not this mind and not this heart**_

_**I won't rot.**_

_-Mumford & Sons, After The Storm._

Most days were a painful blur. He did not speak, he did not smile, he did not feel. His humanity escaped him, bit by bit, until he was just a shell. A shell of John Watson.

Piecemeal destruction.

He was aware that people moved around him; spoke to him, but it didn't register. It couldn't. Not whilst the biggest part of him was still missing.

He'd played it out in his head thousands of times; the resurrection. It would be full of shock and surprise and anger and hurt and _relief_. But not anymore. John had no doubt in _Sherlock's_ ability; it was just his part that seemed impossible to play. How could he even attempt to be a raging ball of emotions, when he didn't have any?

He had learned how to filter his thoughts so that the pains of his life - of Afghanistan, of _Him_ - couldn't get through. The guns, the blood, the bodies - all blocked out.

Over the years the holes in the filter had gotten smaller and smaller. Joy was no longer allowed.

_He_ was no longer allowed.

...

John slowly lowered himself into the bath; every limb submerging separately. The water was unbearably hot – just how he liked it.

_Burning._

This was the only place he allowed himself to think, to remember. The pain in his chest grew harsher with every thought that rushed back into his head. Fragments of past conversations floated around his consciousness, most coming and going within a split-second, but there was one that had always stuck. It sat, spinning before his eyes, playing out like an old film. Black lines and spots flecked the screen as he stared blankly into the watery abyss that enveloped his body. The picture gradually came into focus, revealing the familiar face of Lestrade, sipping a pint of Guinness. John was seated beside him on a creaking wooden pub stool, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Both men were dressed in black - Greg out of respect; John out of habit. For the first few seconds the film was on mute. Greg gesticulated, using his hands to emphasise his dramatic rambles on the subject of his wife's second affair.

This film was so familiar to John , so regular, that he could almost count down to the point when the sound came blasting out, distorting the dialogue as if the speakers were turned up past maximum volume. His body recoiled, finding itself in the foetal position; fully immersed.

"**The thing is, I don't even mind her doing it. And I know this sounds pathetic, but I bloody love her, y'know? I should've told her more – and that's the thing I regret the most. All the arguments and shit-storms would have been worth it if she just loved me back for a bit longer." He looked over at John, who had his eyes fixed on a dark stain on the wooden table. "When did we get to be such sad wankers, John?"**

_The thing I regret the most._

As if on cue, the channel was switched.

"**I'll get it, shall I? Here."**

"**Not now, I'm busy."**

"**Sherlock-"**

"**Not now!"**

"_**He's back**_**."**

**Sherlock's head jerked upwards. **

**After a few moments' silence, and a quick trip to his mind palace, he spoke.**

"**Jo-hn," the catch in his throat triggered a twinge somewhere in John's heart. "I-if he." Sherlock blinked, **_**hard**_**. The mask was cracking and John couldn't bear it. "If things go wrong, if- if he **_**burns**_** me. I just want you to know -"**

"**Sherlock. You'll be fine."**

_The thing I regret the most._

John was used to opening his eyes to the sight of wavering bath water distorting the ceiling tiles, but on this particular day, as his eyelids drifted apart, the outline of a figure came into focus.

He blinked. The figure stayed.

He blinked again. The figure remained.

_You're not dreaming, John._

A surge of emotion coursed through his body. A feeling he used to know as _happiness_.

The bathwater swelled and twirled as he clambered to his feet - accompanied by the painful screeching sounds his skin made as it scraped against the side of the tub. Eventually, he found his footing and stood proudly, a huge grin plastered onto his face.

He fluttered his eyelashes in an attempt to rid them of soapy water. John's vision finally cleared and he angled himself towards the person standing before him.

John's smile faded.

John closed his eyes.

John fell to his knees.

John cried.

"I'm sorry love, you know the rules. You hadn't made a sound for over ten minutes. I had to." Mrs. Hudson sighed sympathetically and draped a towel around the shoulders of the broken man before her.

...

Utterly deflated, John crawled into his bed – Sherlock's was saved for special occasions – and sunk under the duvet. He hated how his life was controlled by subconscious routines, but he could do nothing to stop it. As per usual, he backed up against the wall. His legs automatically curled up to meet his heaving chest, and his hands wrapped the covers around him as tightly as he could without cutting off his oxygen supply – although that wouldn't be the worst way to go. An arm draped itself across his waist, simulating another person - a partner; a lover – gripping him tightly until his breathing calmed. Imagination was the key, but John's was slowly deteriorating.

_Mental imagery of unattainable male specimen normally soothes the beating cardiac._

_He's here. You're safe. It's all fine._

The rational part of John's brain always managed to take over at this point; resulting in little rest, little sleep and, ultimately, little hope.

...

There was no word to describe what he felt. Nothing to express the dread. The hope. The emptiness. The _pain_ that engulfed him. Even worse, was the fact that no one could get through to him. John was so desperate to talk, to laugh. God knows they'd tried. Mrs. Hudson had hardly changed at all; she was still the lovely, motherly figure that she always was, but now she carried a heavier burden – and had saved John's life more times than he'd care to admit. But even with the most experienced carers came mistakes.

His fingertips danced across the flames; twitching and flinching to the tune of the violin that played on repeat in his mind. With every note he let the pain seep in further. The faint smell of burning flesh triggered a slight twinge in his facial muscles; a reaction which he'd previously known as the beginnings of a smile.

"Where's the birthday boy, then?"

John acknowledged the familiar voices somewhere in the back of his mind, but he didn't pay attention.

"Oh, hello love, you just missed the cake! John's just through there," Mrs. Hudson motioned towards the door, "he hasn't been the same since, well, you know. I thought I'd give him a minute on his own to-." She was abruptly cut off.

"On his own? You bloody idiot!" Lestrade simultaneously thrust a shoddily wrapped bottle of wine into the bewildered woman's arms and charged into the living room. He momentarily paused to look upon the frail man that sat before him, the only colour in his face coming from the candles that were melting into his skin. The look on his face caused an uncomfortable lump to develop in Greg's throat.

John had stopped trying to hide the pain in his eyes a long time ago.

"John, what the fuck are you doing?" Lestrade took a deep breathe, exhaled and lowered his tone. "John, stop it. Please." He calmly walked towards the orange glow and gently removed John's hand from the flames. A glimmer of disappointment shot across John's face, and the emptiness returned.

"Why- what are you doing, John?" Lestrade tried to sound understanding and sympathetic, but his nonplussed expression shattered the illusion.

_Feeling_. John replied wordlessly, still fixated on the candles, mesmerised.

A shaken Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway, receiving a fierce glance from Lestrade.

"I'm- I didn't." She stammered, apologetically.

"You do know he's on suicide watch?"

"Well, yes of course but, but I thought after all this time..." She was close to tears.

"What? You thought what? That after a few years it'd all blow over, he'd go back to normal and completely forget about it? That man was his fucking _life_." His rant was cut short by a dark figure appearing upon the stairs leading up to the flat. The silhouette rhythmically bobbed upwards with each step taken.

The voice that came was low and deep; penetrating hearts and bouncing from the walls.

"Language, Greg, there's a lady present."

Silence fell instantly.

Mrs. Hudson slowly turned around, her face already streaming with tears from the bollocking she'd just received. Her mouth gaped open in sheer amazement as the figure came into full light.

"Oh, boys. Why do you do this to me? I'm sorry," Mrs. Hudson gently pushed past the man in the hallway and hurried downstairs, clutching a handkerchief to her face. Through her sobs, she managed to speak, tilting her head to the left slightly, as if it would help direct the sound back to the flat above. "I can't do this."

Lestrade hadn't moved. His face was frozen in a state of complete disarray. There were so many thoughts running through his head, just the amount of words that could be said made him feel sick. _Is this how John feels? Frozen, with nowhere to go. _He could embark on a second one-sided argument, but he thought it'd be best to leave this one to John. _Christ knows how he must be feeling._

_Shit. John._

Due to the situation, John had completely slipped his mind. Time seemed to slow as Lestrade turned his head – anticipating, hoping and, frankly, shitting himself. _How could I forget about him? I bloody hope he hasn't done anything stup-_

His train of thought was interrupted by the fact that he'd turned his head far enough to see John.

John, who sat. John, who stared. John, who was broken.

John, who was _not fixed_.

That was what confused him the most; _surely_ he'd heard, _surely_ he'd recognised. But, no. He hadn't moved from the spot he was left in.

Silent John.

_Frozen, with nowhere to go._

Lestrade looked back towards the door. For the first time in his life, he could see empathy in those icy blue eyes. "You know you've done this to him. Make it right, you fuckwit." He shot a final, silent glance at the figure as he made his exit.

Sherlock Holmes' gaze never wavered, he never took his eyes off of his brave little soldier. A broken toy. Discarded, forgotten.

He longed to hear his laugh, to see his smile. But of all of the words John had uttered in the numerous imagined scenarios, he'd never expected to hear nothing.

_Oh, this was clever. No reaction was worse than a bad reaction, an angry reaction, an emotional reaction._ It seemed that John wasn't so stupid, after all. He knew just how to hurt him. Sherlock had prepared himself for every conceivable outcome, except for _nothing._

...


End file.
